


It's 3am; I Must Be Lonely

by vagrancing



Series: We, Intertwined [1]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Tattoo Parlor, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Gen, M/M, Naked Cuddling, Porn with Feelings, Post-Coital Cuddling, Tattoos, Trash-Talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-23
Updated: 2015-06-30
Packaged: 2018-04-05 18:17:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4190070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vagrancing/pseuds/vagrancing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“you can’t get tattooed drunk, come back in the morning and if you still want my name on your ass we’ll talk”</p><p>or: I picked a drabble prompt and now my life has spiraled viciously out of control</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> seriously. this was supposed to be like 500 words max, i'm a mess
> 
> second chapter is just porn. straight up porn with no relevance to anything but porn. i'm just saying. you don't have to read it, friends
> 
> EDIT: added some fluff to the end of chapter one...it was going in the next chapter bUT that's at 3100 words and still going already. so. SORRY FOR KEEPING YOU THIRSTY PEOPLE WAITING

The problem with working a tattoo parlour in a resort town is that you’re open ‘til 5am. Actually - the closing time isn’t the problem. The _problem_ is that by 5am the streets are filled with drunk-ass tourists who think spewing in the gutters is hilarious and there’s no better idea than getting a crappy song lyric indelibly inked into their skin. Iwaizumi’s picked for the closing shift not because of his sleep schedule (if he had it his way, he’d be on opening and have the nights to himself) but because he works out and it _shows._

Case in point: the door jangles open with the accompaniment of coarse laughter. Iwaizumi gives these tiddled hopefuls a grunt of acknowledgement but doesn’t bother moving from the desk yet. Giving them a quick once-over, he judges that he’s got a good fifteen, twenty minutes before these three get their shit together enough to even ask about prices; for now they’re flipping through design books and photo albums, jibing each other about bullshit and making the usual stupid comments. Personally, Iwaizumi doesn’t give a fuck if some butch-ass dude walks in and wants a full-colour fairy tattooed on his backside. Different strokes, and all that.

He tunes them out as much as is possible (while keeping an eye out for any potential liquid yawns, or someone peeing in the cactus again) and trawls the internet boredly. What’s with cats and small spaces, anyway? Someone really oughta tell them about physics. Also, it’s unbelievable how much home renovation some people accomplish on a budget of fuck-all. Are there classes for this sort of thing? Not that his landlord is big on alterations (or physics-defying felines, unfortunately) but one day he’ll probably have a home of his own, right? That’s usually how adulthood works? He’s a little hazy about this still, but _eventually--_

Ah. During all this serious musing he’s been frowning straight ahead into space. Unfortunately, that space is occupied by a glassy-eyed stranger who is definitely drunk enough to attempt to cha-cha-real-smooth when all that’s playing is hard rock, which _also_ means they’re probably drunk enough to think Iwaizumi was actually staring at _them._ Well, not that he cares about the opinion of an intoxicated stranger, anyway.

“How’re you guys doing over there?” The question comes out as more of a sigh than anything: time to get this farce underway so he could end it. No way in _hell_ were any of these dudes ending up under the needle tonight, he resolves as the black-haired one trips over his own shoe attempting to stand. Iwaizumi’s in no particular mood to be cleaning up that much blood.

The guy he’d absolutely _not_ been staring at tries to execute a winning smile and a ballet turn at the same time, which doesn’t end well. Iwaizumi leans on his hand and watches as a crowing pile of limbs tries to separate itself into three distinct people, mostly failing. Eventually they get themselves sorted and stumble over to him, letting the counter prop them up and shoving a few photobooks under his nose like Iwaizumi didn’t have them memorised by now. 

Ah, well: _it begins._

“So, we were- are these all from here?” Blackhead slurs, the unsteadiest on his feet. “‘Cause, like, there’s _hella_ diff’rence in those styles, man.” He sounds like he’s trying to be accusatory but can’t quite remember what the word means. Iwaizumi opens his mouth to reply - quite mildly, actually - only to be interrupted.

“ _Dude_ , you can’t just straight-up say that to a guy! He’s all scary an’ shit, what if he does some, y’know, scary thing?!” Iwaizumi thinks he’s doing a pretty bang-up job of maintaining his nice, neutral ‘customer face’, but apparently that’s not good enough for this dude. Which is kind of insulting, considering he looks like one of those Cirque du Soleil guys doing a thing about owls. Maybe featuring rascally, Cheshire-style cats: to wit, one Blackhead and his sozzled snigger.

He leans unsteadily over and prods Iwaizumi in the chest. This is a Big Mistake; Owleyes recoils instinctively, showing a surprising grasp on the situation for someone who can’t grasp a countertop to hold himself up. Even Blackhead realises that he’s made better life decisions and attempts to backpedal. He ends up only about two inches away from where he starts, but Iwaizumi gives him points for trying. Out of morbid curiosity he slants his gaze Mr Cha-Cha’s way, and finds himself staring, once again, into a grin. This time it looks a little less glassy and a lot more snide. Uncomfortably so. Ten minutes into their non-acquaintanceship and Iwaizumi already hates this expression - is that a new world record? Is someone available to call Guinness and check?

Cha-Cha says, “Now, now, Tetsu-chan! You’re not allowed to insult the tattoo man; if you do, you might end up on one of those ‘World’s Worst Tattoos’ websites!” He tuts, for all the world a concerned mama, and Iwaizumi isn’t sure whether to be mollified or miffed. The smile turns back upon him, trying for charm once again. He counters it with Scowl #1b: I’m Not Angry, I’m Just A Little Irritated. It does nothing to save him. “So, Tattoo-Man, if that _is_ your real name--”

“Ah, Oikawa, there’s a nameplate,” Owleyes interrupts helpfully. Iwaizumi thinks it’s _highly_ suspicious that he’s suddenly able to read when two minutes ago he’d totally have believed that there were only three fingers on his hand. He starts looking around for hidden cameras or something.

“Congratulations, you win the bonus prize.” Iwaizumi regrets the words as soon as they slither, sinful and treasonous, past the twist of his lips. To be fair, he hadn’t expected a fully grown man (or possibly alien - all bets were off at this point) to grip him by the collar, while his two deranged buddies all-but leapt onto the counter in disproportionate glee.

Owleyes butchers his name first. “F’real, ah-- Iwasuto-san?!”

“Idiot, it’s Imasuki!”

“What? No way; how bad is your kanji, dude?”

“That’s hiragana. Unless you mean the English translation beneath it,” Iwaizumi inputs. He is generally ignored by the growing debate.

“Hah?! You’re the one who’s always all, _Akaashi, I’m so stupid, please do my homework for me like a good kouhai_ , after all! Can you even spell your _own_ name in kanji?!”

“Wh- I- you wanna _go,_ pretty boy?!”

Cha-Cha (Oikawa?) raises his hand and frowns. “Please don’t involve me, I’m having more fun watching.” This actually manages to stop the bickering. Iwaizumi is impressed despite himself. Guy can’t cha-cha worth a hot damn, but he _is_ smooth. He’ll give credit for that. “Calm down! I’m sure,” he glances at the nameplate, and Iwaizumi waits for the fallout, “Iwa-chan doesn’t want to hear about your literacy problems.” Iwa-chan? _Iwa-chan?_ Maybe Imasuki wasn’t so bad, after all. “Apologise to the nice scary tattoo man right now.”

He’s still a little too dazed to acknowledge the humbled _sorry, Iwa-chan_ chorus with more than a brief glower. Man; the boss is gonna have kittens when she reviews the security tapes later in the morning…

“‘M sorry, Iwa-chan--”

“Iwaizumi. It’s _Iwaizumi._ ”

“--Iwa-chan, we didn’t mean to insult you or anything.” The disgraced pair look truly dejected. Even their stupid haircuts are drooping. Why is he feeling sorry for these assholes? He’s too good for this world. Maybe this alien man will take him far, far away from human madness-- _wait._ Blackhead (Tetsu-chan?) scuffs a fingertip over the photobook. “But, like-- are these _really_ all from here? Why’s there such a diff’rence?”

Since he looks so earnest, Iwaizumi doesn’t bite his head off any further. “Because there’s more than one person working here, obviously. Everyone has their own particular style. And some of these artists don’t work here any more.”

Oikawa cocks his head at him curiously, and there’s that weird intensity to his drunken haze again. “Which are yours, Iwa-chan?”

“Iwaizumi.”

Owleyes pipes up, “Yeah, which are yours, Iwa-chan?” and Iwaizumi fights very, very hard for personal control. 

Eventually he manages to take a deep breath and motions for them to give him the folders. He discards the open one in favour for the slimmer, more recent volume and flips through it. “Okay. I can replicate most of what’s in here,” he says, temporarily forgetting that he has no intention whatsoever to ink these idiots up tonight, “but for something in my _own_ style...ah, here’s one.”

The photo he taps is actually a piece Iwaizumi’s pretty proud of. The linework’s bold, the proportions are just right, and the colouring bleeds seamlessly from one shade to the next in the fashion he’s becoming low-key known for. If he’s feeling sentimental, he’d say his style is very reflective of himself: well-defined at first glance, with hidden subtlety. His newly-adoring public jostles for a good squint at the piece.

Oikawa says, “Iwa-chan, that is a _lovely_ unicorn.”

“Unicorns are hard.” He crosses his arms and nods once, sharply. “It’s all in the horn.” 

Honestly, he expects more giggling, but the Terrible Two are already flipping through more pages. They’ve developed a game called ‘Iwa-chan or Not-Iwa-Chan’ which apparently revolves around trying to spot his work from the rest. He keeps a vague score and is slightly flattered at how well they’re doing.

Oikawa says, “Ah-- but Iwa-chan, how’s your handwriting? I want something, y’know, _meaningful._ ” It’s gonna be lyrics to some shitty pop song, Iwaizumi knows it. Truly, he deserves so many awards for not smashing his head through the wall and having done with it all.

“I don’t think it’s particularly bad or particularly good, but if you want text I can just stencil out a font,” he sighs, reaching for the particular Shitty Fonts Folder. “What’d you have in mind?” Absently he reaches over to extract Owleyes’ fingers from Blackhead’s nostrils. This game was getting out of hand.

Thumbing through the selections _(please not Bleeding Cowboy, please not Bleeding Cowboy)_ Oikawa hums. It strikes Iwaizumi, suddenly, as odd - like he’s off-balance next the other two, who are like melody and counterpoint; like he’s trying to be the center of gravity to rogue satellites who want to run roughshod over a solar system. It’s a weird analogy, but it’s also three in the morning, and Iwaizumi can lie to himself well enough to believe it’s the wind stirring the hair at the nape of his neck. He blinks into the full brunt of Oikawa’s ready-for-wear smile and knows he was wrong. That’s not a safe haven, or an anchor. It’s a gravity well, waiting to swallow the unsuspecting whole.  


He’s not sure which is louder, the syrup-sweet sentence sliding from Oikawa’s tongue, or the sudden hammering of the blood in his ears, but he hears neither and feels both. “We~ell,” Oikawa drawls, “I was thinking of something like ‘Iwa-chan’,” and it takes Iwaizumi a full minute to realise that this was, in fact, the end of the sentence.

He wriggles a finger in his ear, regards it suspiciously, and recrosses his arms for safe measure. “Sorry, I didn’t catch that.” There’s something that sounds a lot like “he’ll catch _you_ ” coming muffled from the cheap seats, which Iwaizumi ignores as steadfastly as he stares down that brutal smile. It wavers, ever-so-slightly, then returns with a vengeance as if to cover the slip. He feels his own frown deepen.

“That’s cold, Iwa-chan! That was a _great_ pick-up line for someone who’s had this many shots, and you just straight-up pretend not to hear it!” The smile devolves into a definite pout, one Iwaizumi can tell has been practiced incessantly in the mirror. It’s just the right amount of petty and appealing, and, _damn it_ , it’s _working._ Iwaizumi tightens up his defenses - that is to say, his frown - and decides this is as good a time as any to break the bad news to them.

“Shitty pick-ups aside,” he begins and ignores Oikawa’s strangled noise of protest, “None of you are getting inked tonight, anyway. Not here.”

He expects outrage, indignation, even threats of violence. Instead he gets three eerily well-synchronised sets of extreme puppy-dog eyes as three grown men clutch each others’ hands for solidarity. “Iwa-chan, why?! Why are you betraying us like this?!” bleats Owleyes. “That’s way harsh, man!” Blackhead whines. “I didn’t mean it!” Oikawa backpedals. Iwaizumi holds up his hands for silence.

“Look. You’ve all been drinking. You can barely stand up straight even _with_ a wall to lean on; do you honestly expect me to believe you’re capable of consenting to something like this?” A new round of protests threatens and he shakes his head. “Nuh-uh. All that aside, _I’m_ the one who has to clean the blood off the chair, and it’s way too fucking late in the day for this. Basically: you’re gonna bleed like stuck pigs, which I can’t be fucked with, and you’re too drunk to function like real adults, let alone sign a consent form. No tattoos.”

“But _Iwa-cha~an--_ ” 

_”NO ‘BUT’S.”_ The trio looks somewhat shocked at the switch from sardonic to harsh in his tone. Why does this make him feel like he’s kicking baby animals? He’s too soft-hearted for this world, Iwaizumi laments. And relents, just slightly. “But I _don’t_ mind if you want to pick out some designs or whatever and come back later. Sober.”

They look at him, then at each other, and Blackhead pulls something tentatively out of his jacket pocket. “Then, could you put these on us? Like a consolation prize?”

Iwaizumi regards the temporary tattoos, expressionless. “These are _shit._ ”

“Well, yeah, but isn’t that half the point?”

He should probably be charging the fuckers for his time, but it’s a quiet night and Iwaizumi is bored as hell. That’s what he tells himself as he lets them back into the parlour proper, scooting them all onto one bench to minimise cleanup since he doesn’t have to worry about medical contamination with goddamn _temporary tattoos._ “Okay. What do you want and where do you want it?”

Blackhead (Kuroo, he finally introduces himself as) decides he wanted the classic barbed wire armband, and giggles the whole time Iwaizumi meticulously applies the damn thing. The other dude turns out to be one Bokuto Koutarou and he gets the most horrendous skull’n’crossbones Iwaizumi’s ever seen plastered onto his forehead like it’s a great idea. Eventually he turns to Oikawa for his part in this farce, and--

Fucking _wow_ , what an asshole. There he is, draped over fully half the bench with his ass hanging out; by rights, he should have needed a shoehorn to get himself out of jeans that tight. He grins evilly, flutters eyelashes coquettishly, and pats his backside invitingly. “Since I can’t get Iwa-chan’s name, I’ll take a rose for love instead~”

The Terror Twins hoot and holler. Iwaizumi’s vision slowly goes red around the edges. Wordlessly, he strips the tattoo out of its protective covering and winds up. The crack his hand makes when he _slaps_ the tattoo onto bare (soft, pliant, _warm_ ) flesh is sadistically satisfying, as is the resultant tingle in said hand when he draws it away to apply the water. Iwaizumi is the picture of nonchalance. Oikawa is a gasping mess of outraged surprise.

Kuroo and Bokuto whistle softly and simultaneously slap low-fives into Iwaizumi’s proffered palms. It feels nice to win.

 _“Iwa-chan.”_ Oikawa is clearly aiming for playful petulance, but he can’t quite mask the rough edge to his voice and it makes Iwaizumi feel like he didn’t win, after all. Actually, it makes him feel like doing a few shots himself, saying _fuck it_ , and maybe taking off clothes-- no, wait. That’s not right at all. He brings himself back to earth in time to hear, “Has nobody ever tamed you from your wildman upbringing? _First_ is dinner and flowers; _then_ it’s spanking.”

“Says the guy who wanted to get my name tattooed without any foreplay at all.” That sentence was a Mistake and he knows it, but it’s too late now. The brakes on this rollercoaster are failing at record speeds. Even Bokuto and Kuroo have enough sense to recognise the warning signs, clinging vaguely together as they watch the drama involved.

“Well, if it’s _foreplay_ you’re offering, Iwa-chan--”

“I’m not.” Why does that taste like a lie?

Predictably, Oikawa ignores him, “--then give me your email and I’ll send you an application form. Normally I require three solid references, but since it’s _you_ I’ll let it slide.”

Something about that seems very wrong (and rude); Iwaizumi addresses the wrong point entirely. “Why, because you don’t think I can come up with three?”

“I would _never_ suggest such a thing! I’m just going easy on you, since you’ve been _so_ accommodating, and--”

“Wow. Just put your ass away already before you scare off any potential customers.”

“ _Please_ , Iwa-chan. If anything, this ass would bring them in. Ah- do you need help drumming up custom? I’m always willing to help a friend in need!”

“What, you’re going to pole dance outside the shop as a trade-off for me filling in your boyfriend application?”

“You’re asking to date me now? Very well; I accept!” Iwaizumi’s still not really sure how this conversation got so far out of hand. At least Oikawa finally pulls his pants up and hops down, beaming triumphantly. “Right now I’m only in town for the weekend, but if you work _really_ hard I might--”

“Don’t bother.” He steps back, hoping some physical distance will help bring him back to his senses. It’s - well, it’s _fun_ , bantering like this, and it occurs to Iwaizumi that this kind of casual conversation (okay, outright flirting) has been lacking in his life for a while. Is he getting old? Does this mean he’s finally ready to commit to a better apartment and even a cat? He adds, “I’m not interested,” just in case Oikawa was getting the wrong idea, but Kuroo snorts so hard he falls off the bench and completely ruins the whole thing. Not even Iwaizumi’s best Scowl #7f: Don’t Even _Think_ About Pressing The BIg Red Button does anything to quell his sniggering.

Oikawa pats his chest as if in consolation, and his hand lingers just long enough to feel warm. “I understand, Iwa-chan. It’s hard to say goodbye to a face this pretty, right? You don’t want to form any attachment.” He nods to himself. Iwaizumi manfully represses a growing urge to throttle someone - there are security cameras right there, after all. “Alas! It could’ve been fun, but I guess this is goodbye…”

There’s no reason that Iwaizumi should expect the overly-dramatic hand-to-the-forehead show of dismay to morph into a sloppy (if flatteringly passionate) kiss, but he feels like he should’ve seen it coming anyway. And if he doesn’t really _encourage_ it (look, opening his mouth in surprise doesn’t count) he also doesn’t really do anything to shut it down, either. Oikawa’s arms feel surprisingly strong around his neck and whatever he’s been drinking tastes honey-sweet.

This is information Iwaizumi definitely didn’t need to know so intimately.

Oikawa smirks down at him but it’s lost some of its sharpness now. Iwaizumi doesn’t know whether to punch him or drag him back down for more of the same; he settles for crossing his arms, cocking one eyebrow tellingly, and sighing for good measure. “Go on, kids; go back to your hotel and keep partying or something. If you still want tattoos when you've sobered up, come see the day shift before you start drinking _again._ ”

“Iwa-chan…” Kuroo starts, and Bokuto cuts him off with a bow.

“Iwa- _san_ , thank you for your services this evening.” (Oikawa muffles an unattractive snort and Kuroo kicks him. Iwaizumi likes Kuroo better now.) “We’ll honour your memory with shots.”

“Bye, Iwa-chan! Keep up whatever you’re doing at the gym!’

And just like that, they’re leaving, a whirlwind of what-the-fuck trying to squeeze through the door three people at a time. It’s almost shockingly quiet without the past hour’s entertainment. Iwaizumi stares after them thoughtfully. Frowns.

“Honour my memory...what am I, dead?”

. . .

At 8am, Iwaizumi’s only had a bare couple hours of sleep, and that’s nowhere near enough for his temper when his phone goes off. His mood worsens when he sees it’s an unfamiliar number with a picture attached. What the fuck? If this was some asshole texting nudes to a wrong number, they’re going on the internet. Iwaizumi is not fucking around right now.

He begrudgingly opens the message. It’s even worse than he’d feared.

► _Good morning Iwa-chan!! ó‿ó I hope you were sleeping well...you left quite an impression, you know! Literally! ヾ｜￣ー￣｜ﾉ_

Iwaizumi stares at the text, then works up the courage to open up the image. He should have known: it’s a way-too-closeup of Oikawa’s ass, complete with - _oh no_ \- what is very much Iwaizumi’s handprint still just barely visible. He replies with the only thing possible:

► _how the fuck did you get this number_

It takes less than two seconds for Oikawa to reply. The fucker; he’s already thought this whole conversation through. It’s another image attachment, this time of Iwaizumi’s business card.

► _Iwa-chan, so dense! So defenseless! Anybody could get this number and send you inappropriate things. Anyway, you owe me breakfast. (o´ω｀o)_

► _how do you figure that?_  


► _You desecrated my flesh! Isn’t it obvious?_  


► _you kissed me. how bout we call it even and i go back to sleep. and you go away. forever._

► _So rude!! I’m giving you the perfect opportunity to make it up to me and you’re being such a meanie! ヽ(ｏ`皿′ｏ)ﾉ Play nice or I’ll complain about your brutality, Iwa-chan!_

► _that’s blackmail, shittykawa_

► _SHITTYKAWA? That is IT. I DEMAND BREAKFAST. OR ELSE. (॓_॔)_

► _stop making stupid faces at me_

► _B.R.E.A.K.F.A.S.T._

► _it’s too early to put up with you  
make it brunch. LATE brunch_

► _...Brunch is acceptable. 1pm, don’t be late! I’ll text you the address~ (~￣▽￣)~_

Iwaizumi groans into his pillow, rolls over for another few hours’ sleep, and tries to act like he’s not grinning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in case you didn't see it, there's been a small addition to the end of chapter 1! sorry for mucking everyone around!
> 
> also, i know i promised straight-up smut but goddamn if there isn't a lot of fluffy bullshit in here as well. I TRIED...

He supposes he should be grateful that Oikawa didn’t pick _the_ most expensive restaurant in town; presumably they were booked out. This place is still above his pay packet, but he’ll make do. He hadn’t _really_ meant to leave a lasting handprint on a customer’s ass, after all. Sometimes you just had to atone for your sins.

Despite himself, he actually enjoys the dawdling brunch they share. Oikawa’s a jackass, certainly, but he’s also articulate, intelligent, and energetic. Not to mention charismatic. If Iwaizumi didn’t know better he may have thought he was sitting across from some celebrity, the way people (mostly women) keep coming up to greet his strange acquaintance. Iwaizumi doesn’t mind sharing Oikawa’s attention, not really; it’s a little unsettling to have the undivided attention of such an intense stare for so long.

They can’t take up seats all day, however. Eventually they push through the doors and back into the alpine resort’s wintery surround. Oikawa (Oikawa Tooru, 22 years of age, part-time model and full-time student, he’s learned) complains about the cold and Iwaizumi teases him for willingly coming here if he’s so cold-blooded. It’s easy, he admits, to spend time with someone who’d fallen into his life completely whimsically, and would shortly leave the same way. He’s not the type to believe in fate, but he does go with the flow as long as it feels right. Unexpectedly, this does.

That probably means he’s fucked, Iwaizumi figures.

The wind picks up and Oikawa squeaks, crowding into him for warmth. One-on-one he’s a lot less hectic, easier to be around. Pleasant, even. Some of the sharp edges have left him, and Iwaizumi finds himself inviting this relative stranger back to his apartment as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. Oikawa bumps him playfully with one hip, but otherwise is almost disappointingly well-behaved. They flop onto Iwaizumi’s couch with some shitty movie on for background noise and talk some more shit. Oikawa shoves his hands up under Iwaizumi’s shirt, “for warmth,” and eventually Iwaizumi lets his guard collapse all but completely. 

Oikawa kisses him again. Now it’s slow and heavy, with more purpose and direction without the befuddlement of alcohol, but still tinted with honey sweetness. Iwaizumi leans into him this time. His hands catch at Oikawa’s hips before sliding over his back, and something pounds hard in his chest when their bodies find flushness against each other. It makes it hard to breathe - or maybe that’s just because his major airway is otherwise occupied; either way, he’s not complaining. This obviously isn’t Oikawa’s first time ‘round the block. His lips move with a singular certainty of purpose, his tongue confidently exploring Iwaizumi’s own in lazy motions. 

For his own part, Iwaizumi is definitely rusty, and he’s happy to let Oikawa have control for now. It’s easy to let his weight press them both into the couch; easy to let his hands wander up and down the long muscles of Oikawa’s back; easy to grin around the soft noises he’s making against Iwaizumi’s mouth. Before long they’re shucking their outer layers. Oikawa’s skin is smooth, pale and unblemished; Iwaizumi traces invisible patterns over it and follows fingertips with lips. Iwaizumi’s skin is weathered by long days in the summer sun and littered with freckles even in the depths of winter; Oikawa connects them to form constellations. 

Iwaizumi’s had plenty of one-night stands - even one-weekend stands - but none quite like this.

Tugging Iwaizumi’s final layer of a t-shirt up, Oikawa pauses and squints, frowning. “Iwa-chan, what on earth…?”

His fingers skitter over Iwaizumi’s chest and he flinches - that _tickles_ \- and glances down. “Oh,” he says eloquently, “Well, you can’t really expect a tattoo artist not to have any ink of his own, can you?”

“I’m surprised you’re not covered in it,” Oikawa replies honestly. “But what _is_ it?”

Iwaizumi shrugs and pulls his shirt off completely so it’s not hampering his arms. “You can see it better in the summer, I guess...It’s just kind of a stippled sunburst pattern, I don’t know. I couldn’t think of anything I wanted in particular, but I wanted _something_ , so I ended up with this.”

Oikawa’s back to tracing over it, and he unerringly finds the origin point, tracing out rays of dots before coming back to the centre. “Why so light? It’s basically skin-tone, or it would be on me.”

“I’m not a flashy guy. Bright tatts on other people are fun, but I don’t think it suits me. Besides, I like it like this. It feels like a secret.”

The smile Oikawa favours him with is like a sunburst of its own. “Have I unlocked a special bonus level, then?” he asks, and Iwaizumi kisses the arch tone off his lips with a mock growl. 

The alacrity with which Oikawa goes pliant under his hands is gratifying. Emboldened, Iwaizumi slips his palms down Oikawa’s sides and up over his stomach, his chest, until his fingers take a gentle grip in brown curls. He tips Oikawa’s head back and lays a path of open-mouthed kisses down his neck, sucking experimentally until Oikawa’s breath is coming faster and his fingers are clutching Iwaizumi’s shoulders for balance. Iwaizumi’s mostly just impressed with himself for remembering how this goes.

He draws a knee up between Oikawa’s thighs, intending to tease him a little, but is caught by surprise when it elicits a definite moan. Without any subtlety whatsoever he frees a hand to grip the front of Oikawa’s pants and is rewarded with 1) Oikawa’s way-too-lewd moan again as he rocks back into his leg, and 2) a handful of definitely-hard dick. Whatever vague notion he’d held that this might _not_ end in sex is promptly dropped over the back of the couch and never seen again. Iwaizumi drags his palm roughly up and down over Oikawa’s jeans until those lewd noises turn from pleased to needy; if his own dick is anything to go by, that’s getting painful. _Well._

“Bedroom,” he orders, and it’s not really surprising that his voice is starting to get ragged ‘round the edges. Oikawa blinks at him, trying to process the words, and Iwaizumi can’t resist kissing his swollen lips before shoving at him forcefully. He clambers out from underneath him, dragging him to the bedroom. At least it’s tidy today - not that he was expecting any company, not really - and the bed’s even made.

(It’s about to be destroyed, if Iwaizumi has any say in the matter.)

Oikawa crawls to the middle of the bed and looks back over his shoulder coyly. Iwaizumi settles on his knees behind him, thumbing open his button and fly for a bit of pressure relief before working to get Oikawa out of his pants entirely. “The fuck do you buy ‘em so tight for?” he grouses, and Oikawa just laughs.

“Maybe I like feeling you struggle to get me out of them.”

He doesn’t point out the _he_ can hardly be the reason, specifically, that Oikawa buys such ridiculously form-fitting jeans, but damn the man if he doesn’t wear them well. Iwaizumi’s almost reluctant to tear them off - almost. He gets them down to Oikawa’s knees, with a bit of helpful wriggling from the subject at hand, and nearly forgets to take them off the rest of the way. Oikawa lifts one leg at a time until there’s one set of denim lying rumpled on Iwaizumi’s floor. 

“How many squats do you _do_ every day?” Iwaizumi breathes by way of a compliment. His hands fit a cheek each just nicely; he can’t quite help a groan as he squeezes and finds _just_ the right balance of squish and resistance. Oikawa pushes back into his hold with another breathless, carefree laugh.

“Just enough, obviously. I take it you approve, Iwa-chan?”

Shifting his hands to Oikawa’s hips, he rocks him back until they both groan with feeling. “I forgive you for being a jackass when you’ve got _this_ ass,” he concedes. “Honestly, though, it’s not doing anything for my self control…”

Oikawa twists out of his hold and flops - gracefully, somehow - onto his back. He holds his arms out and splays his knees in a way that would be obscene if he wasn’t wearing underwear (it’s borderline as it is). Iwaizumi bites his lip and looks at the ceiling before sinking against the perfect cradle of Oikawa’s limbs. His breath is hot and wicked against Iwaizumi’s ear as he murmurs, “I don’t mind,” and arches his back until their chests touch with every inhalation.

Iwaizumi’s pretty sure he’s never undressed so fast in his life.

Oikawa lounges on the bed and watches him, one hand idly stroking himself up and down through the barrier of his underwear. He pushes up on the other hand to find Iwaizumi’s lips again; now he nips and nibbles, teeth always on the right side of ‘too much’, slowly but surely eroding any doubts Iwaizumi still has about fucking a really hot, really compelling stranger. His hands wander over Iwaizumi’s chest and stomach in time with small noises of approval, always stopping just short of his hipline and the tell-tale twitching of his cock below it. _Tease,_ Iwaizumi thinks to himself, but it’s painfully pleasant to be played by such beautiful hands.

He returns the favour, hooking Oikawa’s leg over his thigh and sliding his thumbs up its back in a not-quite massage. Oikawa shivers his appreciation and he works his way higher, digging fingertips into an ass that would make sculptors weep with joy, leaning in to kiss the soft skin behind his ear. “Iwa-chan,” he begins, and Iwaizumi is startled at how deep his voice is, this heavy with pleasure, “Y’know...I’m not in any hurry, but I’m also not going to survive long at this rate.”

He doesn’t make eye contact and there’s colour high on those flawless cheekbones, like he’s embarrassed to be the one admitting to painful levels of arousal. Or is it…? 

With a sudden burst of insight, Iwaizumi gently nudges him onto his back again, rubbing a thumb lightly over Oikawa’s lips. “I don’t work tonight,” he offers. Oikawa grins, both relieved and naughty, and it’s really disconcerting how pleased that makes him. 

“I told the others not to wait up for me~” Oikawa practically chirps, which makes Iwaizumi flush all over for some stupid reason.

“Brunch was just an excuse to get into my pants, wasn’t it?” 

“ _We~ell,_ the thought _may_ have crossed my mind several tiMES-- _Ohhh…_ ” Iwaizumi’s getting pretty deft at derailing him with his mouth; right now he puts it to excellent use somewhere other than Oikawa’s face. It’s high time the underwear was done away with altogether. He sends it flying to meet the pile growing on the floor. Unable to help himself, he takes a moment to admire the pure beauty of Oikawa’s form. Somehow even the garish fake tattoo doesn’t look out of place - it’s on skin so perfect, everything else is a fitting background - though he’s a little disappointed that his handprint is finally gone. 

With a glint in his eye as wicked as anything his target could muster, he settles between Oikawa’s knees and - very, _very_ slowly - runs his tongue up the underside of his cock. Oikawa’s hands are immediately in his hair, just short of being painful, and he takes that as a sign to continue.

Slicking his palm now, Iwaizumi wraps a firm grip around Oikawa’s shaft and gives Oikawa a gentle squeeze before stroking experimentally. His lips fit over the head of Oikawa’s cock almost perfectly; Iwaizumi sucks, slow and long, until he feels it twitch in his mouth. There’s a perverse streak running through him that’s a mile wide. He blames that for his growing smirk, and the taunting pace with which he takes Oikawa further past his lips. His tongue picks up a racing pulse. 

Once he’s taken as much as he can bear, he glances upwards to see how well his handiwork is doing. It’s a gratifying result: Oikawa’s head is thrust haphazard against the pillows, the flush that began on his cheeks now dappling his chest, swollen lips parted as little moans push through. Iwaizumi’s well aware that he’s not the king of blowjobs - they’re not his favourite activity, but he _does_ enjoy receiving them, and it’s only fair to pay back the favour - so it’s nice to see someone so wrapped around every flick of his tongue, every hollowing of his cheeks, every twist of his hand. 

He works his way up again, tongue pressing firmly against a slit already spilling. Oikawa looses a sound that resonates right to Iwaizumi’s bones, arching into him. Such a wanton display needs a proper reward, he supposes. Iwaizumi tugs Oikawa’s thighs so they’re braced against the strong wall of his shoulders. It’s a little awkward to loop his arm around, but he manages and begins squeezing rhythmic pressure around Oikawa’s balls. The hands in his hair tighten and release in matching time; he moves his other hand to keep Oikawa’s hip pinned in place. There’s no way he’s going to be able to go the whole way down, not as out-of-practice as he is, but he takes him into his mouth as far as he can before the gagging gets too bad. A little discomfort here won’t hurt him.

“Iwa-chan…” Oikawa’s stuttering, and Iwaizumi’s almost a little offended he can speak at all. His voice is still low and rough, disheveled in a way that’s far more heart-pounding than deliberate seduction. He turns a glassy-eyed pout down at him. “No fair; I want to touch, too!” Iwaizumi lifts his head and hums questioningly; Oikawa huffs. “It’s mean for me to be the only one so worked up…”

Not even Iwaizumi is hard-hearted enough to resist such a heartfelt, chagrined request. He gives him one last suck, wiping spit and precum from swelling lips, and shrugs Oikawa’s legs free of his shoulders. They fall to splay comfortably around his waist as he works his way up the other’s torso with nips and wet kisses. “And here I thought you were the type who enjoys being spoiled,” he jibes, but it’s softened by his gasp as Oikawa reaches for him - for them both - long fingers effortlessly capturing their erections with a firm grip. There are callouses on his hand, Iwaizumi thinks dimly, but he doesn’t have the chance to wonder about it. Or think any further at all, really. All that’s left to him is the way Oikawa’s hand strokes them together, the heat of them mirrored in the lava pit at the bottom of Iwaizumi’s stomach.

He feels his knees start the give out and gives up any attempt at being cool about this. With his forehead pressed into Oikawa’s shoulder and his hips jerking in the barest definition of rhythm, Iwaizumi does his level best to not to lose control immediately. What he ends up doing is biting his lip so hard he can feel it swelling (at least it’s not bleeding, _yet_ ) and crushing their chests together in desperate friction. Under his skin he can feel the erratic beat of Oikawa’s heart and the stammer of his breathing. 

Oikawa gives them a long, forceful stroke from tip to balls; it’s slick with precum and sweet, so sweet that all Iwaizumi can do is swear as he shudders and comes. A gasping Oikawa finishes moments later; Iwaizumi rolls free of him before their combined mess gets too sticky. He flops onto his back. Their legs are still tangled, but he’s too busy trying to breathe to care. After a minute Oikawa scoots over until his head is resting, sweaty and dishevelled, on Iwaizumi’s shoulder, eyes closed in content afterglow.

Iwaizumi reaches over and half-assedly tugs the duvet over them as best he can. “It’ll get dirty!” Oikawa protests, and he gives him a sidelong look.

“What, you didn’t plan to do worse to it than this tonight?”

The speed at which Oikawa turns red is so embarrassing that Iwaizumi’s own face heats up in sympathy. “I-Iwa-chan! That’s really lewd, you know?!”

He tries a casual shrug, probably failing miserably, but at least Oikawa’s no cooler than he is right now. “I’m not the one who told my holiday buddies not to wait up, after all.”

“Well, _yes_ , that’s true, but--”

“Besides, didn’t you say it last night? ‘Dinner and flowers first’?” Iwaizumi covers the temporary tattoo with his palm, squeezing it with far more care than he’d shown putting it on in the first place. “Here’s your flower, and I even shelled out for brunch…”

Oikawa hums agreement. “So you’re into spanking after all, Iwa-chan?”

“Not particularly,” he shrugs, “But I’m sure we can think of something else.”  


Honestly, he’s embarrassed with the words coming out of his mouth, but Oikawa keeps giving him the bait to rise to. Now he has the gall to laugh, warm and familiar like they’ve known each other forever, like they’ve always fitted this well against each other, like this verbal by-play is as crucial as breathing. Was it possible to know someone this well without knowing a damn thing about them? Oikawa’s mirth gives way to an impossibly gentle smile, pressed to Iwaizumi’s temple. “I’m sure,” he murmurs, then pulls a face and sits up. “But for now - bathroom?”

Iwaizumi looks down at himself, and sighs agreement. “Right across the hall; all the important stuff’s under the sink. Throw me the towel on the back of the door, would you?” Oikawa nods, and obliges, and Iwaizumi cleans their combined mess off his stomach and chest. Accurately predicting that the other’s likely to be taking his time, he takes advantage of the solitude to bury his face in his pillows. He’s not worried that tomorrow’s separation will be painful, not really; it’s just been a long, long time since he’s been so thoroughly overwhelmed.  


Oikawa returns to find him with his hands laced behind his head, staring thoughtfully up at the ceiling, two glasses of water on his bedside table. For a moment, Iwaizumi swears he hesitates, then he’s bundling himself onto the bed like he belongs there, obnoxiously crowding into personal space and tucking himself seamlessly against Iwaizumi’s side. His face is damp; he must have washed it. His hands are warm on Iwaizumi’s chest. He takes one in his own and turns it over, not sure what he’s looking for until he finds it.

“What are these from?” His thumb rubs lightly over the callouses on Oikawa’s palm, softened from washing. There’s the barest of flinches in reply and he knows that he’s knocking on the door of a sensitive subject. Oikawa’s face shutters and Iwaizumi pretends not to notice.

“Ah, a bad addiction I had in my high school years,” is the lie he’s fed; he doesn’t push it, just nods understandingly. The callouses are new and hard, not softening with disuse. Iwaizumi doesn’t expect the truth from brief flings, though. 

He pulls the hand to his lips and kisses it softly, not missing the welter of expression that wrinkles Oikawa’s brow and swallows hard in his throat. There’s not much Iwaizumi can do about past or future hurts. At best, he’s a current distraction. That, at least, he thinks he can manage.

Oikawa makes a soft, almost tender, noise of assent when he’s pulled more fully into Iwaizumi’s arms, a hand tripping lightly over muscle and skin from shoulder to hip. Now that their urgency’s been dealt with there’s a pleasant lassitude to their dalliance that whispers _don’t hurry_ to the marrow in Iwaizumi’s bones; he listens and just enjoys the feeling of a willing body warm against his. Oikawa’s hair smells of sweat and doubtless-expensive shampoo. He buries his nose into it with a sigh. How long has it been since he’s felt so relaxed, so at ease in his own self? It’s almost scary how Oikawa gets his thoughts racing like this.

“Iwa-chan,” he murmurs, sounding lazy, “How long have you been here?”

“Mmm? Hmm- about two, three years, I guess? I used to just come for the tourist season, but I moved here full-time last year.”

Oikawa tries to peer up at him and huffs when all he gets is an eyeful of chin. “Where did you go back to, in between? Is it far?”

Angling himself onto his side means Oikawa’s head can’t rest on his shoulder, but it does allow for easier eye contact. “Miyagi, and Osaka too. Haven’t found anywhere to settle,” and get a cat, and a real job, and a house of his own, “but I don’t mind. This place is beautiful, even if the tourist population is shit.”

He grins and Oikawa rises to the bait. “Excuse _me_ , but I can personally verify that _some_ of the tourist population is unbearably wonderful - not to mention attractive, talented, kind--”

“And modest?” He gets a solid thump to his chest for that and all it does is make him laugh harder. Oikawa pretends to be offended for another half a minute before kissing the very tip of his nose.

“You’re rude, Iwa-chan. All this wandering about the land has ruined your manners, if you had them to begin with.” He puts a hand to his head in a dramatic gesture that reminds Iwaizumi of last night - earlier this morning - and how brazenly Oikawa had kissed him, right there and then in the middle of his deserted tattoo parlour. “What am I going to do with you? I should send you back to your mother for proper training.”

“If you send me back home, I’ll only get fat,” Iwaizumi warns. He’s _mostly_ joking.

He’s _not_ prepared for the predatory look Oikawa drapes over his body, and almost feels the need the draw the duvet up to hide his nether regions (which is stupid, considering what had transpired in this very bed over the last hour). “Frankly, I’d only be impressed.” It’s not a statement that ought to be lewd, but the fire is definitely back in those bottomless brown eyes. Once again, Iwaizumi finds himself transfixed by the singular focus with which this man regards the world. “If your mother’s cooking is good enough to make even Iwa-chan give up the gym,” he boldly squeezes a bicep for emphasis, “then please make sure to invite me next time~”

Talking trash is the only way Iwaizumi knows to salvage this devastation. “Like hell I’d inflict your ego on her. How big do you think my parents’ house is? Your fat head wouldn’t even fit through the front door, you know.”  


“What?! Iwa-chan, you take that back! Your hear is _definitely_ fatter than my chiseled jawline and perfect cheekbones-- _Hey!!_ ”  


Iwaizumi’s finally found a weakness. As his fingertips skitter cruelly at Oikawa’s side, he can’t help but cackle at the shrieking that ensues. Who would have thought that the great Oikawa Tooru could be laid so low by a simple tickle attack? 

Inevitably, the torture and writhing gives way to breathlessness and false remonstration. Oikawa accuses him of inhuman abuse; Iwaizumi shuts him up with increasingly deep kisses. It doesn’t take long until they’re keyed-up again and panting, until playful hands tighten their grips and teeth nip. Iwaizumi comes halfway to his senses with his knee between Oikawa’s thighs again, their fingers gripped lightly into each others’ hair. This entire interlude is a typhoon of desire that overrides whatever qualms he half-heartedly raises to counter it.

Oikawa sucks a purpling stain hard onto his neck. “Iwa-chan, I have a confession,” he purrs, and doesn’t sound the least remorseful. “I had some very, _very_ naughty thoughts about you last night…”

“Was this before or after you decided to con me into a brunch date?”

“If we hadn’t eaten properly, we wouldn’t be able to have as much fun right now,” he points out reasonably, his leg over Iwaizumi’s hip. “And as fun as my little fantasy was, I _much_ prefer the real deal.”

Iwaizumi swallows, hard. “Are you going to tell me about these dirty thoughts, or haven’t I unlocked that reward tier yet?” He knows, right away, that he’s fallen prey to Oikawa’s sultry trap: if the smug look on the fucker’s face wasn’t so frustratingly _hot_ it’d be infuriating.

He shoves Iwaizumi indelicately onto his back and straddles him, hands busy over his own skin in slow strokes. “Where’s the fun in telling you already? The pay-off’s in keeping you guessing long enough to want more~!” Shuddering in lackadaisical delight, Oikawa positions Iwaizumi’s hands encouragingly on his ass. The way he rolls his hips is cruel, and probably illegal in several countries if Iwaizumi had anything to say about it; all he can immediately manage in response is to tighten his hold on this God-given glory and let Oikawa tease him mercilessly. He’s muzzily trying to frame a suitable retort when Oikawa grinds _particularly_ hard against him, and any thoughts that aren’t completely carnal go flying out the bedroom window.

Growling, he shoves up and sideways until Oikawa hits his back on the mattress with a surprised _“Oof!”_ The speed at which Iwaizumi yanks his top drawer out and retrieves condom plus lube is probably another entry under his name in the record books; Oikawa’s eyes widen and his breath hitches pleasingly. Iwaizumi tugs him up and onto his knees, oddly similar to the point - so long ago - when he was undressing him, and gets the condom into place with a brief fumble. Part of him wants to dive right in, but the sight of Oikawa on all fours, head cocked back over his shoulder to stare wide-eyed and flush-faced at him, is enough to momentarily knock the breath from him. It’s like the tattoo on his chest is a real sun now, pulsing with warmth and light and things he doesn’t really understand or want to. Every inch of him feels too-hot and singed around the edges, but at the same time it’s excruciatingly wonderful, like a well-earned sunburn. 

(He doesn’t realise the reverence with which he’s breathing Oikawa’s name.)

He runs the inside of thumb and forefinger up the back of Oikawa’s thighs, slow and deliberate. Oikawa presses back into his touch and even from here Iwaizumi can see how hard he is. It makes his own cock twitch, like they haven’t already played this dangerous game today. His mouth is burning and bruised but it still can’t fight the hypnotism of Oikawa’s skin; kisses leave a trail of shuddered delight up his spine and back again; the graze of his teeth elicits strangled whimpers of encouragement. The lube is cold but warms quickly over Iwaizumi’s fingers - and quicker still when he painstakingly slides them, one at a time, into Oikawa.

(The low moan of his name is different this time, somehow; with a jolt that brings him to full hardness, he realises that Oikawa’s whimpering _Iwaizumi_ instead of his usual teasing epithet.)

It’s all he can do not to rush this, to thrust in sudden and hard and fast. Oikawa’s hands are gripping the sheets in a stranglehold and his forehead presses against them. Iwaizumi holds him by one hip, fingers squeezing soothingly as he carefully scissors and thrusts, stretching him so gently it must be nearly unbearable. He feels lightheaded when Oikawa begins to beg, his lust-lowered voice steadily climbing an octave as he pleads _that’s enough, please, Iwaizumi, **please**_ and really, that’s about his own limit. 

He bends over him, cock nestling firm against the cleft of his ass, lips bruisingly soft at the nape of his neck. Iwaizumi laves more lube over himself for good measure, lines himself up, and slowly - _achingly_ slowly - works his way in.

__Oikawa’s back arches as his head flies up. Iwaizumi curses but it comes out as a moan, a lusty counterpoint to the choked sounds already filling the bedroom. His hand on Oikawa’s hip is vice-tight, he realises, but for the life of him he can’t loosen it. He’s woefully unprepared for the sheer depth of feeling he’s experiencing; even having come once already, it’s like he’s on the brink again already. _“Move,”_ Oikawa begs. __

Iwaizumi obliges. 

It’s like blinking free of a fog. His free hand slides under Oikawa’s chest; he resets his knees wider. With a grunt, he hauls Oikawa up flush against him, taking their combined weight on his heels. Oikawa’s hand flies back with a yelp, his hand finding purchase and balance at the back of Iwaizumi’s neck. “It’s okay,” he breathes in reassurance, “I’ve got you.” And it’s not easy, but he does, so Oikawa arches his back, half-riding him as Iwaizumi finds the right point of balance and begins a rhythm of his own. His hands wander over the taut planes of Oikawa’s chest and stomach - he can feel muscles moving to accommodate their deviance, tightening and relaxing and shivering involuntarily under his touch. He’s been black-out drunk before, but Iwaizumi doesn’t think he’s ever been so thoroughly intoxicated. 

The neighbours must be getting an earful now; Oikawa couldn’t keep his voice to himself if he tried, and Iwaizumi isn’t much better. Even when his thighs start screaming in protest and they fall back to more traditional all-fours fucking, there’s an intensity that he’s never experienced before. On the one hand, he wants to make this good for both of them; on the other, he wants to fuck Oikawa into a helpless puddle on his bed. Iwaizumi throws self-control out the window, grips Oikawa’s hips, and hardens his pace. Oikawa writhes and does his best the match the rhythm, his mouth a stream of fucked-silly consciousness, his chest heaving with the efforts of his stuttering lungs. When Iwaizumi leans forward and wraps his hand around his cock, Oikawa _keens_ and comes, going so instantly boneless that it’s only Iwaizumi’s strength keeping him from falling on his face. 

Iwaizumi comes harder than he ever has in his life, blunt fingernails scoring red lines at Oikawa’s hips, knees finally giving up until he has to catch himself before he topples off the bed and out of Oikawa with no preamble. His whole body collapses from weightlessness to leaden. He inhales sharply, and there are spots of white dancing in his vision. Oikawa whines in protest when he pulls himself free; but Iwaizumi makes it up to him with fervent kisses at his brow, hauling him sideways until Oikawa’s weight rests mostly on him.  


“Fuck,” he says eloquently, and Oikawa manages a breathless giggle. 

. . .

Unsurprisingly, they both sleep well that night. Iwaizumi’s not used to sharing a bed, but Oikawa’s used to all space revolving around his presence, so in the end it works out as effortlessly as the way their hands find each other. His bathroom is really only designed for one person at a time, but they make it work.

Even the morning isn’t as awkward as it ought to be. It’s tempting to try and recreate the previous day’s magic in a last hurrah before they have to part, but Iwaizumi’s thighs scream any time he so much as thinks about moving, and Oikawa seems to be made of 500% Snuggle at nine in the morning. They share a lackluster breakfast of cereal; Oikawa teases him about his penny-pinching ways; eventually it devolves into a half-hearted wrestling match and from there to making out on the couch.

Oikawa’s phone buzzes and he glances at it with a sigh. “Well, Iwa-chan, it’s been a blast but that’s my cue to leave, I’m afraid.” Iwaizumi nods.

“I’ll wa--” He moves to stand up and winces, to great amusement from the King of Demons opposite him. “I’ll _stagger_ you to the hotel. Mother-dearest did teach me _some_ manners, after all.”

“I’m impressed any stuck at all,” Oikawa says lightly. “But you’ll be limping in the wrong direction - the boys have my bag, and we’re meeting at the station. I’d be _terribly_ late, otherwise.”

Iwaizumi blinks at him. “What time does your train leave?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

“Fifte-- _Fifteen minutes?!_ Are your brains made of garbage?! The station’s a twenty-minute walk on a good day, and it’s _snowing_ , Oikawa.”

Oikawa hums thoughtfully, making his way to the door with far too little haste considering the situation, Iwaizumi feels. “I suppose a piggy-back’s out of the question, then?”

“Oh my god. Just-- get your shoes on and I’ll find you another jacket.” 

“Aw, Iwa-chan! Are you concerned about my health? That’s so sweet~”

“Your brains are garbage, and _you_ are garbage. If you die from influenza I don’t want them DNA-testing and finding out I f-- _kissed_ you. I could be culpable, Trash-kawa.”

Oikawa laughs and it does bad, bad things to Iwaizumi’s libido; the way he pins him against the wall doesn’t help, either. “Kissed me? Iwa-chan, you did _much_ worse than that.”

It’s really unfair, he thinks distantly, that Oikawa lucked out on good looks _and_ height. Crying internally at the injustice of it all, he shoves Oikawa towards the outside world. “Now is _not_ the time! Get your shit together and let’s move, already!”

In the end they run to the station, Iwaizumi’s thighs protesting the whole way. He worries vaguely that the trains might stop running due to the snowfall - then he’d have to put up with Oikawa even _longer_ , and for reasons he’ll pretend are exasperation that would be Bad News - but it’s light and not settling to anything but their coats. Kuroo and Bokuto are waiting and obviously anxious that their buddy isn’t going to make it in time. Iwaizumi all but shoves Oikawa into their care as he comes to a halt, panting. The entirety of his day off is going to be spent with heating pads on the insides of his legs until walking doesn’t feel like some medieval torture. 

He startles at a hand on his shoulder and socks Oikawa in the stomach on reflex. Oikawa just laughs at him, again. “How typically rude, Iwa-chan! I’m just trying to bid you a heartfelt farewell, and this is how you treat me.” The mournful look on his face is so manufactured that Kuroo mimes gagging. Iwaizumi ignores him and tugs Oikawa down for a final rough kiss.

“Go catch your damn train already, idiot.”

“I’ll miss you too,” Oikawa replies, and it makes him shiver because he sounds like he means it. With a gamine grin, the borrowed overcoat is bundled into his arms. The trio hurry to the platform as the final call sounds over the loudspeakers. “Bye, Iwa-chan! Thanks for the sex!”

“Shut your damn mouth!”

Bokuto joins in the bullshit. “It was nice meeting you! Come visit Tooru before he pines for too long, ‘kay??”

All Iwaizumi can hear is a scandalised _‘Kou-chan, **rude!!** ’_ before the doors slide shut. But he definitely sees Kuroo’s sly wink, and Oikawa gets the last word - as it was - by blowing him a gross kiss.

It’s a full five seconds before his phone vibrates in his pocket with Oikawa’s address and a warning that Iwaizumi isn’t safe now that he knows where he lives. Iwaizumi grins, winces, and shuffles his way home.


End file.
